


Sherlock: Green On Grey

by IBegToDreamAndDiffer



Series: Sherlock: Colours [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mild Language, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-23
Updated: 2012-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-30 01:01:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/326035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IBegToDreamAndDiffer/pseuds/IBegToDreamAndDiffer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has promised John he won't cut himself any more... but can he resist the temptation?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock: Green On Grey

**Author's Note:**

> Original characters are owned by Arthur Conan Doyle, these versions are owned by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. I just get to play.

_‘Sherlock.’_

 _‘I promise, John.’_

 _They both knew this might end badly. Even if Sherlock said he’d stop, he’d be coerced by his own boredom into doing it again. But hopefully he’d talk to John about it. Hopefully John could stop him. Hopefully the brilliant Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t fall victim to a razor blade on the cold tiles of a bathroom floor._

 _John pressed the blue icepack to Sherlock’s black eye. ‘Better?’ he asked._

 _Sherlock nodded slightly. ‘Yes. Thank you.’_

 _John smiled and Sherlock winced as he pushed a little too hard. John just smiled more._

 

 

-oOo-

 

 

The itching was driving him mad. Sherlock scratched at his arm, which was covered by his dressing gown. There was no satisfying scab being pulled off a cut. They had healed days ago. There was no satisfaction, no drawing blood. He groaned softly and leaned back.

‘Sherlock, stop it!’ John snapped.

Sherlock frowned. ‘It itches, John.’

‘And whose fault is that?’

Sherlock pouted and turned to curl in on himself. John shook his head. Sherlock... self-mutilation... admittance of caring... it was doing John’s head in. But he’d be there for Sherlock because that’s what friends did. No matter how pouty, or annoying, or angry Sherlock got, John wouldn’t let him relapse; he couldn’t.

There was a polite tap on the door and Sherlock groaned, rolling to face the couch. He was visibly pouting as John answered the door.

Mycroft Holmes, dapper as always, smiled warmly. ‘Good morning, Dr Watson.’

‘Mycroft,’ John said, ‘would you like to come in?’

‘Please.’ The elder Holmes stepped into the flat smoothly and gracefully seated himself in John’s arm chair. He twirled the long black umbrella in his thin fingers. ‘How are you, Dr Watson?’ Mycroft asked, gazing at his brother.

‘I’m fine, you?’

‘Quite alright,’ Mycroft answered. He tilted his head slightly, watching Sherlock with pale blue eyes.

‘What do you want?’ Sherlock asked.

Mycroft smiled. ‘Do I need a reason to visit my baby brother?’

‘Go away.’

‘Why must you always be so antagonist, Sherlock?’ Mycroft asked, a slight note of curiosity filling his voice. John was certain Mycroft knew why Sherlock was so rude; sibling rivalry, clashing personalities (personalities that were so similar yet so different). Then there was Sherlock’s drug habit, Mycroft’s inability to understand privacy, and of course, their need to outmatch each other in... everything.

Sherlock grunted and closed his eyes.

‘I understand that Dr Watson has helped you, Sherlock,’ Mycroft mused, his eyes shifting to John briefly before resting on his brother once more. ‘Do tell all.’

‘Like you don’t know,’ Sherlock muttered.

Mycroft smiled politely. ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Stop being so boring, Mycroft.’

The older Holmes brother smirked. ‘I’m just curious as to why you’d decide to stop now, Sherlock. I must say I’m fascinated.’

‘Fascinated?’ Sherlock scoffed. ‘More like upset that I stopped because John asked me to whereas you demanded I do.’

A brief flash of anger crossed Mycroft’s face and John gulped. But then the polite, handsome politician was back and Mycroft smiled. John nearly shook at Mycroft’s ability to hide his emotions. The man had power for a reason.

‘Sherlock, I am just glad that you’re finally listening to someone, however brief it may be.’

‘Brief?’ John asked. Mycroft turned to look at him. ‘What makes you say that?’

Mycroft smiled politely. ‘Dr Watson, for all the good you have done my brother, he is still a junkie; an addict. And one simple deceleration, one small promise, will not stop his cravings.’

John crossed his arms. Defensive now, of himself and Sherlock. Mycroft’s smile widened slightly.

‘I believe him,’ John said firmly. ‘I believe in Sherlock. He told me he wouldn’t do it anymore and that’s good enough for me.’

Sherlock rolled to look at John. He saw the defiance in his eyes, the look that dared Mycroft to contradict him. Mycroft saw it too and his smile broadened even more.

‘Well, Dr Watson, let us hope that you are right.’ He stood swiftly and started for the door, grasping the handle with pale hands. ‘Do call, Sherlock,’ Mycroft said, turning briefly back to his brother. ‘You know how I worry.’

And with that he was gone, stepping gracefully from the flat and shutting the door with a soft click.

‘Sod,’ John muttered and Sherlock smiled. He sat up so he could watch John potter around the kitchen, making tea or lunch, Sherlock didn’t really care.

John had stood up for him... to Mycroft. Sherlock smiled, but it froze when the familiar darkness clawed at the back of his brain.

He was... he was bored.

‘Sherlock?’

He blinked, looking up. John was staring at him.

‘Are you okay?’

‘Yes,’ Sherlock said, swallowing and forcing a smile to flash across his face. ‘Thank you, John.’

John shrugged. ‘I believe you, Sherlock. I don’t care what Mycroft says.’

He went back to making... whatever, leaving Sherlock deep in thought. The boredom was coming back and with it came the itch for steel on flesh. Sherlock wrapped a hand firmly around his left forearm.

Mycroft had always been right in the past. Sherlock swallowed. Would he be right this time?

 

 

-oOo-

 

 

‘I’m going for milk,’ John said. ‘Do you want anything?’

Sherlock was sitting cross-legged on the couch, hands pressed together beneath his chin. ‘Hmm?’

‘Milk,’ John repeated, ‘going, want anything?’

‘Oh. No, thank you.’

‘Will you be okay?’

Sherlock sighed. ‘Yes, John.’

‘You sure?’

‘Yes.’

Satisfied, John grabbed his coat. ‘Won’t be long,’ he said and left the flat.

Sherlock stayed still for approximately 6.9 seconds. And then he was pulling a small green wash cloth from beneath the couch. Wrapped inside was a razor blade and Sherlock carried the small bundle into the bathroom, locking the door with a loud snap.

 

 

-oOo-

 

 

The shower was more out of liking now than need. Before Sherlock had faked a shower to get away from John so he could cut. But now John wasn’t here. Sherlock was alone, free to slice at his skin anywhere he wanted.

But he liked doing it in the bathroom; the water splashing about, the tiles cool beneath his trousers, the look of deep red blood dripping on the floor.

Sherlock held the new, shiny razor blade in trembling fingers. It was so clean, so very clean, and the green wash cloth he had was also new. John had thrown away his others. Months of blood stained into cotton were gone... but Sherlock would start again.

He rolled up the sleeve of his silk shirt and eyed the pale, muscled arm beneath. His skin had never looked cleaner. Still cut, yes, and still scarred, oh yes. But no fresh marks; none for at least two weeks. They were paling, fading, disappearing. Sherlock couldn’t have that. He needed the red welts against his skin, the scabs itching and peeling. He _needed_ it.

Sherlock pressed the cool steel to his skin and shuddered slightly. So good, oh so good. This was what he was missing; the sharp blade pressed against soft, vulnerable skin. But he didn’t press, not yet. All it would take was a small push... a very small push.

But Sherlock hesitated. He remembered John’s words, that he’d stick by Sherlock, even if he relapsed. He remembered John standing up for him when Mycroft had expressed his certainty that, yes, Sherlock _would_ relapse. But John believed in Sherlock; he trusted him.

And there Sherlock was sitting, back pressed against the wall, razor blade in hand. Mycroft had known Sherlock would do this. Mycroft knew _everything,_ and he knew Sherlock very well. He didn’t trust Sherlock not to hurt himself... John did.

Sherlock swallowed. John believed in him so much. He had believed in Sherlock to save him and Sarah when they were kidnapped. He had believed in Sherlock to rescue that little girl from Moriarty. And he believed in Sherlock now, months later, when the genius was falling.

The blade hesitated against Sherlock’s skin as the brilliant detective stared down at it. John trusted him. _Him,_ Sherlock; the ex-junkie, sociopathic, never-eating, never-sleeping Sherlock Holmes. Why did John trust him? Was it from past experience, John knowing that Sherlock would always come through? Or was it because John knew that Sherlock cared; knew that Sherlock wouldn’t lie, wouldn’t do this, to him. Not to him, not to John.

Sherlock stood and the new green wash cloth fell from his lap. He leaned heavily against the bathroom sink, looking up at the mirror. He saw himself; thirty-four, thin, tall, curly-haired... pale, eyes dark, purple bags beneath... and shaking. Sherlock Holmes was shaking.

He pressed the razor blade back to his skin and stared down at it before looking back at himself. He saw the need there; the want to feel high from the pain and slicing and the blood. Oh, the _blood_. So thick, so dark, so very, very lovely.

Sherlock was shaking more. From need, from want, from the disappointment he knew John would feel. He wouldn’t say anything, he’d help Sherlock. But John would feel _so_ disappointed. It would be in his eyes, on his face, in the way he watched over Sherlock.

He whimpered. Sherlock Holmes _whimpered._ Why wasn’t he doing it? The pain would make all this go away. The slicing, the flare, the burn, the blood.

 _THE BLOOD!_

With a quick and strong move of his arm, Sherlock screamed.

 

 

-oOo-

 

 

Sherlock wasn’t on the couch. John checked the kitchen and his own room before he heard it; the shower. Normally people didn’t care if their friends were in the shower. They’d wait, they’d sit and have a cup of tea. They would _not_ freak out and run to the door.

‘Sherlock?’ John asked, tapping on the door. There was no answer and John knocked louder. ‘Sherlock?’

He was smashing his hand at the door now.

‘Sherlock, open up!’

No answer and John began to panic. Images of Sherlock lying in a pool of his own blood filled his mind as he shouldered at the door. The flimsy lock snapped and the door swung open, smashing into the wall as John stumbled inside.

He spotted Sherlock with his back to the sink, head down, legs crossed. He was cradling his right arm. There was blood everywhere and it dripped from the sink, pattering against the tiles. There was a razor blade on the floor before John.

‘Oh, Sherlock,’ John sighed. He grabbed the first aid kit from under the sink and crouched beside Sherlock.

The man was extremely pale; blood loss. His eyes were hazy as he looked up at John.

‘Lemme see,’ John said. Sherlock shook his head groggily. ‘Sherlock, let me see.’

Finally Sherlock shifted, so slowly, so John could see his arm. He’d run out of gauze and grabbed the clean wash cloth by his side. Wetting it under the shower head, John crouched down once more to dab at the blood that coated Sherlock’s arm.

When he’d cleaned it away he frowned. Sherlock’s arm, while scarred and healing, was fine. There was no fresh cuts, no oozing little slices. All the cuts were healing, had become faint red lines against Sherlock’s pale skin.

John looked up at Sherlock. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Didn’t do it,’ Sherlock slurred, his eyes finding John.

‘What?’

‘Didn’t, couldn’t,’ he stammered. ‘Couldn’t cut.’

‘But... the blade?’

Sherlock shook his head slowly. ‘Tried. Couldn’t. Didn’t... didn’t wanna... dis-disappoint... you.’

John felt a wave of affection crash over him. Sherlock hadn’t cut himself because he didn’t want John to hate him. He _cared._

‘Sherlock, the blood?’ John asked.

Sherlock shifted again to show John his hand. His right knuckles were bloody, possibly broken. His skin had been torn open and blood pooled from the cuts, running lengths across Sherlock’s skin.

‘Sherlock?’ John questioned.

‘Mirror,’ Sherlock slurred.

John looked up. The bathroom mirror had been smashed beyond repair. Cracks radiated out from a fist-sized hole in the middle and the pale grey backing was visible.

‘You punched the mirror?’

‘Anger,’ Sherlock murmured. ‘At myself. Couldn’t... couldn’t cut. Nearly did... would upset you.’

‘Sherlock, it’s okay,’ John said and leaned down. He grabbed the tweezers and began picking grey glass from Sherlock’s hand. ‘I’m not upset.’

‘No?’

‘No.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you didn’t cut yourself,’ John said firmly. ‘Thank you for that.’

Sherlock smiled. ‘Sorry, John.’

‘No worries.’

He picked all the glass out and cleaned up Sherlock’s hand. He wanted Sherlock to go to the hospital but the man shook his head roughly, murmuring and slurring about “surveillance” and “bloody smug Mycroft”. John just sighed and put the man on the couch.

Sherlock curled in on himself, his heavily bandaged hand resting in John’s lap.

‘Sorry,’ he mumbled again, closing his eyes.

‘No worries, Sherlock.’ And then, softly and quietly, he leaned down and kissed Sherlock on the forehead.

Sherlock smiled and drifted to sleep, John watching over him.

John’s phone buzzed and he pulled it from his pocket without waking Sherlock. He left a warm hand on Sherlock’s arm as he found a new message waiting from an unknown (and probably untraceable) number.

 

 

 _I’m glad I was wrong, Dr Watson._

 _MH_

 

 

A proud smile lit up John’s tired face and he leaned back on the couch, eyes watching Sherlock softly.


End file.
